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The bedroom has the most ornate wallpaper and woodwork I have ever seen. It’s as if someone transported a bedroom from The Great Gatsby, with its Art deco rugs and intricate designs that remind me of the 1920’s, to this house. By the looks of it, I assume whatever garments are inside the walk-in closet are equally as old as the rest of the décor. My mother loved vintage clothes. She would have loved this room even more than the gowns Mrs. F sifts through, sliding each hanger to the side until she finds the right one.
“Here it is,” she says, lifting the hanger from the rack to hold up a pale blue gown with a silver accent.
Overwhelmed by her choice, my hand reflexively covers my mouth, as my eyes widen at the beauty of this dress. “This is too much,” I mutter. “I can’t wear this to a party at a frat house. Someone will end up spilling beer on me, or someone will step on the hem. Too many things could happen. I just can't…”
She sighs. “You can and you will, my dear. I want you to wear this dress. It would mean the world to me if you do. It’s good luck, and I hope it will bring good luck to you. Lord knows you could use it.”
Lowering my hand from my face, the corners of my mouth turn up into a wide grin. This dress is everything I ever could have imagined and more. It holds a special place in Mrs. F’s heart, which makes me even more nervous about wearing it to the party. I’m so afraid of something happening outside of my control that my limbs tremble.
“How about I leave you to it?” Mrs. F. hands me the dress that I take with a shaky hand. “I’ll be waiting on the other side for you.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and then she disappears, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The closet is more like an extension of the bedroom, with a chaise lounge in one corner, a chair in the other, and a long, ornate bench made of navy-and-white striped fabric. We have unused rooms like this one in my house that my stepmother had boarded up and left unattended now that she has stripped the beauty from every crevice of my childhood home. My mother would not recognize the place if she were alive to see the neglect.
I hang the dress on a hook, long enough to strip down to my underwear and lower Mrs. F.’s dress over my head. After I shove my arms through the holes and tug it down and in place, I stand in front of the mirror to appraise myself. I stare in awe of this gown and how it hugs each of my curves as if made for me.
Mrs. F was right about the dress. It’s perfect. I hope Finch loves it. Every time I think of Finch, I get giddy all over again. And nervous. He makes me super nervous when he’s just passing by my table in the library.
Is it weird to have feelings for someone who I have never spoken to? Probably. In fact, it makes me sound like a stalker. I’m not. But my chest gets tight every time he walks into the school library. My heart beats a little faster when I see him on my way to class or when he plays football on the lawn in the Quad with his fraternity brothers.
Shawn Finch is perfection in every way. Except for the fact that he’s doing bad in school. I could help him. If only I had him for tutoring.
When I step out from the closet, Mrs. F is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me with a smile on her face. “It looks even better on you than it did on me. This boy will not know what to do with himself when he sees you.”
I consider what he might do to me and smile. I hope that Finch will be unable to keep his hands off me if he’s not already busy with another girl by the time I get there. The party started over an hour ago, and who knows how many girls have thrown themselves at him by now.
Mrs. F gets up with a mask in hand. “You said you were going to a masquerade and that mask you were going to wear just won’t do with this dress. You need something special, something that will make you stand out in the crowd.”
She moves closer, revealing a gorgeous glittery gold mask with purple accents and feathers that stick up on the left side. It looks so regal and refined as if owned by someone famous, the type of person who would own a room as elaborate as this one.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have impeccable taste?” I ask, as she lowers the mask over my eyes and adjusts the strap at the back of my head.
She chuckles in response.
Consumed by this moment, I almost forget that I’m Ella Fitzgerald, house slave to the witch next door. Tonight, I can be whoever I want. The longer I spend with Mrs. F, the clock ticks.
“I have to be home by midnight. Do you mind if I keep my mother’s dress somewhere to change back into before I go home? Clarissa will have a fit if she sees me in yours.”
“Don’t be silly, girl.” Mrs. F clamps her hand on my shoul
der and smiles. “I’m a night owl. Ring the bell, and I will let you in to change before you go home. Don’t worry about your stepmother or anything else. Just find that boy and have a good time. Make this night about you instead of putting someone else first.”
“I wish you were my stepmother,” I blurt out. “I mean…”
She gives my shoulder one more tap in acknowledgment before she releases her grip on me and escorts me downstairs.
Once we reach the door, I take a deep breath and open it. A cool breeze smacks me in the face, sending chills throughout my body. I was so upset when I ran from my house that I’d forgotten to grab a jacket.
As if reading my mind, Mrs. F places a winter coat over my shoulders and helps me slide my arms into the holes. “How are you getting to the party, my dear?”
I hadn’t given that much thought. Considering I ride the bus, I will look like a lunatic in this outfit.
I shrug. “The bus, I guess.”
“Do you have a drivers license?”
“Yes, but I haven’t driven in three years. My stepmother took my car and sold it to buy one for her daughters.”
